Between General Grant and Shostakovich, it has been an intense week thus far.
This is no time for Chesterton’s nightmare (The Man Who Was Thursday). Instead, let’s look at Chesterton’s joy.
All the towering materialism which dominates the modern mind rests ultimately upon one assumption; a false assumption.
It is supposed that if a thing goes on repeating itself it is probably dead; a piece of clockwork. People feel that if the universe was personal it would vary; if the sun were alive it would dance.
This is a fallacy even in relation to known fact. For the variation in human affairs is generally brought into them, not by life, but by death; by the dying down or breaking off of their strength or desire.
A man varies his movements because of some slight
element of failure or fatigue. He gets into an omnibus because he
is tired of walking; or he walks because he is tired of sitting still.
But if his life and joy were so gigantic that he never tired of
going to Islington, he might go to Islington as regularly as the
Thames goes to Sheerness. The very speed and ecstasy of his life
would have the stillness of death.
The sun rises every morning. I do not rise every morning; but the variation is due not to my activity, but to my inaction. Now, to put the matter in a popular phrase, it might be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His routine might be due, not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy.
A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon.
It may not be automatic necessity that
makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately,
but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the
eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old,
and our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may
not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical ENCORE. Heaven may
ENCORE the bird who laid an egg. If the human being conceives and brings forth a human child instead of bringing forth a fish, or a bat, or a griffin, the reason may not be that we are fixed in an animal fate without life or purpose. It may be that our little tragedy has touched the gods, that they admire it from their starry galleries, and that at the end of every human drama man is called again and again before the curtain. Repetition may go on for millions of years, by mere choice, and at any instant it may stop. Man may stand on the earth generation after generation, and yet each birth be his positively last appearance.
— G. K. Chesterton
GKC used a lot of words, for he delighted in them. The above was very important to him, though – he called it his “first conviction” (on the way to accepting Christianity).
Chesterton found truth and happiness in a different place than I have, but I very much enjoy his willingness to think.
So do others, including Michael Dalton…
…and P. J. Accetturo.
© Any pictures here without captions I took myself. They have a Creative Commons attribution license. And yes, that’s chicory – my daisy pictures didn’t come out as well.
Categories: Thursday Lit